Enter the Bookworm
by The Enduring Man-Child
Summary: This story's description is in the "apology." It may not be the average BTAS fan's cup of tea, but I hope it will find favor with some. Now complete.
1. The Author's Apology to the Reader

**The Author's Apology to the Reader**

**by "The Enduring Man-Child"**

And yes, the heading of this prologue is most definitely a pun.

This is a most unusual story. I have never before written a fic for "Batman: The Animated Series" and am not particularly a fan of it. I don't dislike it; it simply isn't my thing. I am posting this story here for a very unique reason: I am attempting to take a character created for the Sixties "Batman" camp series and inject him into the "real" world of Batman.

The character of The Bookworm was created, apparently, by writer Hendrik Vollaerts and appeared on only one two-part episode: "The Bookworm Turns" / "While Gotham City Burns." He was portrayed by the immortal Roddy McDowall. Although a one-off humorous villain he was my favorite "Batman" villain of the series and I've long wished that he had been a "real" Batman villain instead of just one created for the Sixties "camp" classic (like King Tut, Egghead, and Shame, to name a few).

This story is an attempt to insert the Bookworm into the "serious" Batman world; thus, it appears in this category.

I don't know how this idea will be received by serious Batman fans. I can only say that the idea came upon me suddenly and simply would not let go. It is the first story in a long time that literally seemed to "write itself."

If you are sympathetic with the idea, then please give it a read, and no harm done to anyone. If it isn't your cup of tea, then kindly ignore it.

Thank you for your consideration.


	2. Chapter 1

**Enter the Bookworm**

**by "The Enduring Man-Child"**

_**All standard disclaimers apply.**_

The young boy entered his father's study with the greatest trepidation. The wealthy recluse was as intimidating and distant with regard to his family as he was to the outside world, and that was saying something.

The imposing figure sat in his favorite overstuffed Morocco leather chair, his face completely obscured by an enormous tome. Truth to tell, the boy was in no hurry for this confrontation and had just soon that it stay that way, though his anxiety only rose as the silence wore on. Finally he thought it best to get it over with and coughed discretely.

There was no reaction.

"Father?" the boy asked at last in a voice he hoped would be audible to the distracted man. Unfortunately, it came out more as a squeak.

Suddenly the sound of leather could be heard as the imposing figure shifted in his seat. The book was lowered and two intense eyes focused the trembling child.

"What is it, Bartleby?" he asked in his sonorous yet threatening voice.

"Father...I'm sorry. I was in a fight."

The book was now completely lowered and the eyes looked him up and down.

"Well, so you were. And just what was the reason for these fisticuffs?"

"Father, the other boys at the Academy all tease me. They don't care that I'm your son. They call me a weakling and make fun of my size and my clothes and my glasses. They call me a sissy."

"And so you struck the rascal who said this about you...isn't that correct, Bartleby?"

"N—No, Father," the boy said shamefacedly. "They say those things all the time."

"And you tolerate such ill treatment?" the father asked, his voice rising.

"I do not like to fight," the boy admitted.

"And yet today something impelled you to stand up for your honor. What was it?"

The boy turned his face down and mumbled something.

"What was that? I did not hear you," the father insisted.

"I said—they made fun of my name. Well, they often do that as well, but this time they called me 'Wigglesworth the wiggling worm.'"

"And you defended your family's honor at once, correct?" the Father demanded.

"No, Father. I do not like to fight. I tried to ignore them but they kept teasing me and finally they grew impatient and pounded me."

The heavy book hit the desk at the side of the chair with a loud sound, causing Bartleby to wince. His father's face grew red and his breathing seemed to speed up. He was afraid of what would happen next. But after a while the man seemed to calm down and he said, "Come here, my son."

Bartleby hesitated.

"I said come **_here_**, my son!" he repeated louder and in a tone that indicated no disobedience would be tolerated.

Slowly the young boy made his way to the front of the enormous reading chair, acting for all the world as if he were walking to his doom. The older man looked severely upon him for a moment and then his countenance softened.

"Bartleby," he said, "you should be proud of your name and allow no one to insult it. My own namesake, our ancestor Michael Wigglesworth, was a renowned poet in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. We are one of the oldest families in New England. If there were any way possible you should have treated those ruffians in such a fashion that they would never make sport of the Wigglesworth name again."

"But I do not like to—"

"To fight, yes, we have established that," the patriarch observed unhappily. "Oh well, while I would prefer that you were strong and healthy and able to force others to treat you with respect, I realize that it is not all your own fault. You are small, weak, and sickly. No, much as it pains me to say it, you will never triumph in physical combat with most other boys your age. However," and here his face showed an unfamiliar glint of sympathy, "there are other ways of besting others. True, you were not gifted with a strong body, but the fates have given you a most powerful mind. Are you aware that most people do not possess your gift of a photographic memory?"

"Yes," Bartleby answered, "to be honest, I believe that one reason they pick on me is that they resent my superior intelligence. And I find lessons so easy to learn that there is no challenge in it for me."

The father placed his chin upon his fists and looked beyond his son for a while, seeming to bore a hole in the book covered wall of the study.

"My son, how would you feel if I were to remove you from that wretched Academy?"

"_Could _you?" Bartleby asked, with more joy in his voice than he would have cared to manifest.

"Of course," his father said. "Look about you, my son. What do you see?"

"I see books, Father," he answered.

"Precisely. _That _is the answer to the mediocrity of modern life as well as of modern education. Books! The accumulated art and wisdom of all cultures and civilizations and of all ages. Literature, drama, poetry, philosophy, history, and science. I have devoted my life," he continued, gazing about upon his collection, "to amassing the largest library in the world. With your special mental gifts you have no need of teachers and of academies filled with the decadent spawn of the _nouveau riche_. You will read _every _book in my collection, my son—every one of them! You will commit every page to memory, and when I add a new volume to my collection you will do the same with it. And one day," he said, looking at his son with the unfamiliar hint of tenderness again showing, "when I am gone from this earth you will carry on the Wigglesworth name by continuing to accumulate the rarest and most valuable books in existence—and you will continue to read and memorize their contents. Is this understood?" he asked, his characteristic severity returning.

"Y—Yes, Father! It is!"

"And when you have done that—when the greatest books in the world are imprinted perfectly on that wonderful mind of yours—" and here, warming to his subject, his voice rose and he seemed to look into the future, "you will use your knowledge to write your own books. You will create your own masterpieces which shall surpass all the works you have read. You will follow in the footsteps of your great ancestor. _That_, my son, is the true reason you were given your gift—not to memorize, but to _create!_ Do you understand?"

"I do, Father!" the boy answered, with more emotion he had ever experienced before, "I shall create masterpieces! My own books will be in the collections of all future lovers of literature! The name of Wigglesworth will be seen alongside those of Shakespeare, Milton, and Cervantes!"

"There, in that shelf," the older man indicated at last, "you will find Dante's _Divine Comedy_. The translation is not the best but it is unabridged, and it will do until you can read the original text—and you _will_ learn to read the original, do you hear me, boy?"

"Yes, Father. I do."

"Very well. Now begin your reading and let me return to my own. At supper tonight I shall inform Persons of my decision and he shall make all the necessary arrangements to have you honorably removed from the rolls of the Academy. No son of mine will appear to have quit with his tail between his legs!"

"Yes, Father," the boy responded. But his mind was already far away, walking with Dante and Virgil in the Inferno.

- - - - -

**Gotham City—the present day.**

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight's charity auction," the smartly dressed master of ceremonies said at the podium. "We want to thank our own Mr. Bruce Wayne for putting up these priceless collectibles for sale, and for turning over all the proceeds to the Wayne Foundation's program for the education of needy children. Mr. Wayne, a few words please?"

Bruce Wayne hadn't planned on making any speeches and in fact hoped to be as inconspicuous as possible, but having been called out like this, and with the assembled guests applauding his name, he saw no way out of it.

"Thank you, my friends," he said. "I have not prepared any remarks for tonight. Let me just say that the world is full of gifted children whose talents are utterly wasted and undiscovered because their families are poor and cannot afford education for them. The Wayne Foundation aims to provide educational opportunities for deserving gifted young people who through no fault of their own would otherwise be unable to pursue an education. Please bid generously. Um...thank you." He departed the podium to a polite smattering of applause.

Among the clients at this auction a very small figure in large glasses muttered "Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air."

"Eh? What was that?" the large man sitting next to him asked.

"Oh, nothing. Merely recalling the words of the poet," the bespectacled one replied.

"Say...do I know you?" asked the larger man.

The discomfort of the smaller man was obvious. "I don't see how you could, sir. Please forgive my disturbing you."

"Wait a minute...yes, that's it...I know you! Bartleby Wiggleworm, isn't it?"

"It's Wiggle_sworth_, not 'Wiggle_worm_,' my good man. Excuse me please." But as the now adult Bartleby attempted to leave his seat his unwanted companion's massive hand reached out and held him down.

"Bartleby old man! Don't you recognize me? It's your old friend Chad Milsap!"

_Oh yes _Bartleby thought to himself _I recognize you as the 'friend' who pounded me because I wouldn't willingly fight you after all your razzing. 'Chad' indeed! Classless oil trash with money and pretensions of quality come up from Texas to try to fit in with their betters!_

"I'm sorry, but I don't recall seeing you before," he said aloud. "Now if you will kindly excuse me..."

"Oh come on, Wiggleworm old boy!" Chad cried exuberantly, making matters worse by grabbing Bartleby around the neck with one arm and rubbing his head with his other fist—quite hard, at that.

"Mr. Milsap, much as I have enjoyed our reunion, I really must be going..."

"Say, wait a minute...seems I've seen your name on a few paperbacks in the supermarket. You a writer now? How's that working out?"

"If you don't mind, I'd really rather not discuss it."

"I bet you're on all the best seller lists!" his conversational partner's unwanted advances continued. "So, you won that Pulitzer yet?"

Bartleby faced his childhood (and current) tormentor with a look of suppressed anger shining in his eyes. The big boob actually seemed to get the message and looked uncomfortable.

"No, as a matter of fact I have _not _won a Pulitzer, _nor _have I been on any best seller lists!"

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry, then. Didn't mean to—"

"And shall I tell you _why _this is so? The reason for my lack of success with the pen?"

"Um...well, it's been nice seeing you, but I really have to go now—"

"The _reason_, my friend, is that despite my vast storehouse of knowledge of the literature of the world, I _do not seem able _to come up with an _original plot _of my own! _Everything _I have written, despite my best efforts, has been influenced in some manner by the works of others which I have _read!_ _That _is the reason you find my books in the paperback sections of supermarkets and not in bookstores! _There! _Now are you _satisfied??_"

"Gee. I mean...wow. That's too bad," Chad said at last, "a smart guy like you not being able to think of his own stories."

Bartleby Wigglesworth, frustrated genius, was actually about to shout at this uncouth pretender to class. Moreover a lifetime of allowing himself to be bullied and ordered about by everyone, from his childhood classmates to his aloof father to the editors who worked for his publisher, was pushing at him from the inside. Enough was enough!

"Ladies and gentlemen, our first item is a rare first edition of _Robinson Crusoe. _Let the bidding begin!"

All at once everything seemed to be forgotten by Bartleby's antagonist, who turned his entire attention to the bidding. Bartleby himself merely remarked to himself _I should have known better than to expect to finally stand up to someone. The bidding _would _have to begin at precisely that moment. Oh well...it was a nice dream, anyway._

Bartleby sat through the sale of rare books, paintings, statuary, and gemstones with no emotion. He was here for _one _and _only one _reason:

"Ladies and gentlemen, our final item of the night is a rare 1877 first edition of Tolstoy's _Anna Karenina_. As you all know, this was the first appearance of the conclusion of the book, which was not published in the magazine that had been serializing it. It has been called the greatest novel in the world, and this is one of the very volumes that came off the presses of that first printing! Let the bidding begin!"

This time Bartleby _did _participate, and did so fanatically. His own writing career provided very little money but there was something to be said about old families with old money. And he had been saving his all through the night for just his moment.

Unfortunately, his old school chum seemed to have the same idea. Unlike Bartleby, he had bought a few items earlier in the evening, but if there is one thing that beats old families with old money (there being no justice in the world), it's "Texas trash" with oil money.

Soon it was just the two of them. Bartleby tried to keep up; he even bid far more than he his original limit. But this book was why he had come to this affair. He had his heart set on it. He _couldn't _be denied his dream of owning this volume coming so close! But his wealth had limits; apparently that of his childhood _bet noire _did not. Ultimately Bartleby Wigglesworth had to concede defeat.

"Sold!"

- - - - -

"Oh well Worm old boy," Chad said as the crowd slowly dispersed afterwards, "too bad about that. No hard feelings, eh?"

"Sure. No hard feelings." Bartleby's look was grim, but his not-too-bright colleague seemed not to notice.

"Well, it was great seeing you again. Brings back fond memories of old times, doesn't it?" he asked. There didn't seem to be a glimmer of sarcasm in his tone.

"Of course. 'Great' memories," the hapless Bartleby repeated, his mind still on how his coveted treasure had slipped from his hands at the last minute, all thanks to a person who seemed to have been put on the planet merely to torture him.

"Well, I'm going to get my purchases and then it's off to my hotel. Would you like to come? You can send your driver home."

"Actually, I don't have a driver," Bartleby admitted. "I find I prefer walking. As a matter of fact, if you'd care to accompany me to _my _hotel you would be most welcome." A few minutes before, the defeated would-be author would have never expected those words to come out of his mouth. But now an idea had begun to form in his mind and his face took on an almost sinister look. Unfortunately, like all his ideas it wasn't original...but sometimes the classics are best.

"Sure, old man! Just let me see that my stuff is carried to my limo. I want them in my hotel room, at least! Then we'll have a jolly time of it—talk about old times, have a few drinks—it'll be like a school reunion!"

"Precisely my thoughts!" Bartleby told him.

The losing bidder watched his triumphant opponent as he made his way to the front of the building to speak with Bruce Wayne and the others and get his treasures safely conveyed to his limousine. _That's right, you brainless dolt! You, who know nothing of books, have stolen what was rightfully mine, but I know of a plot that will suit you perfectly!_

And for the first time in a long time, he smiled.

_**To be continued...**_


	3. Chapter 2

**Enter the Bookworm**

**by "The Enduring Man-Child"**

_**All standard disclaimers apply.**_

**First of all, thanks to my good friend cpneb for the beta, especially considering how busy he is nowadays and that his primary fandom (like my own currently) is Kim Possible.**

**Second, thanks to all who reviewed my story (Mego ZT, Kitsune Hanyou, BiteMeTechie, Twisted Midnight Dreams, and The Mad Maiden). I really wasn't expecting any feedback, on the assumption that most BTAS fans wouldn't be fans of the Sixties Batman and that I was probably the only Bookworm fan in the world. I was pleasantly surprised!**

**Third, my sincere apologies for taking so long to update this story. I wrote the first chapter in a fit of inspiration (which is how I usually write) and after so much time basically had to force myself to write and be creative. What the results are the reader must judge for himself.**

**I do not know how long it will be before I update again. Right now I have two Kim Possible plot bunnies kicking my brain silly, and they are time-conditioned and have to be published within the next two months. I can only say that, Gw, I will try my best not to take quite as long next time (_beli neder_). I'm still making this story up as I go along. It isn't intended to be a huge adventure but merely to introduce the Bookworm character to the "serious" Batman universe. I beg the reader's indulgence.**

**All that being said, here's Chapter 2!**

- - - - -

Bruce Wayne hadn't had such a relaxing night of sleep in years. True, he'd been up until after midnight hosting the Wayne Foundation charity auction, but compared to the nights he'd gone without sleep entirely (plus his knowledge of relaxation techniques learned in the East), this was sheer bliss. Here it was, already seven o'clock, and he was just getting up. And the money the auction had raised also helped his demeanor. Sometimes he could help people without donning the cowl. Yes, sometimes life was good!

"I'm getting up now, Alfred!" he said in response to the rap at his bedroom door. Sleeping until seven was unheard of, so naturally the butler was concerned about him. Bruce was, however, unprepared for Alfred to stick his head into the room and deliver some morbid news.

"I'm sorry, Master Bruce, but the Gotham City Police would very much like you to come to their headquarters and give a statement regarding the unfortunate incident last night."

"What unfortunate incident?" Bruce asked.

"I'm dreadfully sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but one of the participants in last night's auction was killed last night. He was returning to his hotel with another gentleman when apparently he fell onto the tracks of the underground in the path of a speeding train."

"What? Who was it?"

"I'm not sure, sir. They simply called and asked for your statement on the matter. There's no mystery involved. The gentleman he was with witnessed the whole thing. You needn't be of undue haste, but your statement is desired, when you have the time."

Bruce nodded grimly to his faithful servant and made his way to the dining room where Alfred's usual culinary talents were as rewarding as ever, though his enjoyment of them was muted by the news of the grisly accident.

- - - - -

"So exactly how can I help you, Commissioner Gordon?" Bruce Wayne asked a short time later. He was surprised to see the commissioner at headquarters on a Sunday morning, and that personage seemed equally uncomfortable being there.

"I'm not exactly sure," Gordon answered, scratching his head. "Officially it's open-and-shut. Two men are waiting for a train in the subway. The first train to come along doesn't stop there, but one of the men leans a little too far over the track and falls right in front of it. The other man is the only witness. He goes on until he finds someone with a cell phone--"

"The witness didn't have a cell phone?"

"Apparently not. Anyway," Gordon continued, "he has someone call the police, goes back to await their arrival, and tells them just what I've told you. Just the two of them, a simple tragic accident, and one solitary witness. Officially there's nothing to be done. But I can't get rid of this feeling...something just isn't _right _here."

Bruce nodded.

"Such a strange little man. The witness, I mean. Small and wiry, talked a little funny...like someone from the Nineteenth Century. Anyway, he certainly performed a service by telling us the victim's identity. The body was mangled beyond recognition, of course."

Bruce winced. Even his experiences as Batman hadn't completely hardened him to such events.

"But the thing is, he certainly didn't seem broken up by the experience. Both to officers at the site and again here at headquarters he was just too...calm and terse, not tense at all. Described the accident in very few words and almost no emotion, but called the victim his 'good friend.' Doesn't make any sense."

"Who was the victim again," Bruce asked.

"Let's see," Gordon said, reaching of the official report, "Chad Milsap. Know him?"

"No," Bruce answered truthfully. "Am I supposed to?"

"Well, according to the other man they were at the auction last night. The deceased bought a rare book."

There had been so many people at the auction that Bruce couldn't be expected to know them all, especially if they were from out of town. And while the transactions had been registered he didn't have the information in his head.

"So who was the other man? The witness?" Bruce asked.

Gordon took another look at the report.

"Funniest name I've ever seen," he said. "Bartleby Wigglesworth. That's worse than Oswald Cobblepot, isn't it?"

Bruce didn't answer, being lost in thought.

"That name sounds familiar somehow," he said at last.

"Well it certainly doesn't to me," the Commissioner replied. "You rich types are a weird bunch, Wayne."

"Yeah," he answered good-naturedly.

Then the Commissioner's phone rang.

"One second," he told Bruce, and picked it up.

"What's that? The Imperial Hotel...? He's what? Wait a minute, what's this man's name?" Gordon's eyes grew round as saucers.

"I'll send a man over right away. Thank you."

Hanging up he turned to Bruce. "You won't believe this," he said.

"Don't tell me. Our friend with the funny name?"

"He's over at the hotel Milsap was staying in, raising quite a ruckus. He's actually demanding the book Milsap bought last night, claiming that as the second highest bidder it should now go to him!"

"Now that _is _strange," Bruce agreed. "I mean, it certainly seems suspicious...but would someone who had committed a murder behave in such a way? Logically, he seems to be screaming 'look at me, I did it!' That's certainly not a murderer's usual behavior."

"Something tells me our strange little friend knows very little about ordinary human interaction," Gordon said. "Tell you what—I'm going out there myself. And considering the object in dispute was until last night the property of the Wayne Foundation I suggest you come too."

"I wouldn't miss this for the world!" Bruce said grimly.

- - - - -

"I told you, my good man, that the book was bought last night by a very close friend of mine. Unfortunately he was killed in a dreadful accident on the way back to this hotel, so he has no further need of it. I am sure my friend would wish it to come to me."

The hotel manager squinted at the strange little man in the old-fashioned suit and large horn rim glasses. He had come in a few minutes earlier and informed the desk clerk that he wished to remove an object from the room of a friend who had just been killed in an accident. Not knowing how to handle this situation, and being a bit unnerved by the demand and the man making it, he had called for the manager at once. Now in his office the manager was every bit as taken aback by the demand as the clerk had been. This little man certainly seemed to harbor very few emotions at the loss of his "close personal friend." And the manager felt completely unqualified to adjudicate a property dispute.

"And I have tried to explain to you, sir, that I do not feel competent to turn over any of this man's property to you, and that in the absence of a will it goes to his next-of-kin. But not being an expert in such matters I have called the Gotham City police. Perhaps they will agree with you, and perhaps they will make you understand that I cannot do what you ask. We must wait patiently until they arrive."

"Very well. I am sure they will see things my way," the man answered, much to the manager's relief.

The demanding gentleman in the quaint clothes immediately sat down, produced a pad and pencil from a pocket, and began scribbling something furiously, he attention taken up entirely by what he was doing. The beleaguered manager resumed his own seat behind his desk and tried to ignore his unwelcome guest, but he simply could not. It was as if the entire argument they had been having had never happened. The man seemed to have turned the whole thing off like a light and was now wholly preoccupied by writing.

Fortunately for the nervous hotelier, his phone rang at that moment to announce the arrival of the police commissioner and Mr. Bruce Wayne, who seemed to be involved in this whole thing also. He instructed his caller to send them in to his office at once.

Bartleby put away his pencil and pad and rose as the door opened and admitted the two figures.

"Good morning, Mr. Sullivan," Gordon said, shaking the manager's hand, then "Mr. Wigglesworth," as he shook with him also; the little man had an exceptionally weak handshake. "I'm Jim Gordon, Commissioner of Police for Gotham City PD. This is my good friend, Mr. Bruce Wayne."

"How do you do?" Bruce asked as he also shook hands with both men (and making the same observation about Bartleby's grip).

"Now just what seems to be the problem here?" the Commissioner asked.

"The problem, Commissioner," Bartleby insisted gravely, completely belying is meek appearance, "is that last night my friend and schoolmate Mr. Milsap and I bid on very valuable collectible at _your _auction, Mr. Wayne. And while I would have loved to have bought it for myself, naturally if anyone other than me were to have it I was delighted that it was my dear old friend Chad. At any rate, while keeping one another company on foot as we returned to our respective places of lodging Chad suffered a terrible accident. I myself reported it to the police. And now, being the second highest bidder, I feel that I am now the rightful owner of the book that Chad purchased last night. I know _he _would certainly see it that way, and am prepared to write a check for the amount I bid. Yet this...stubborn gentleman...refuses to turn it over to me."

"Mr. Wigglelsworth," Bruce Wayne said, "as the chairman of the board of directors of the Wayne Foundation and master of ceremonies at last night's auction I'm afraid what you're asking is simply not possible. Now that Mr...."

"Milsap," Gordon reminded him.

"Yes. Now that Mr. Milsap has so unfortunately died whatever he bought last night becomes the property of his estate."

"But the purchase was only last night. This is Sunday; surely you can stop the transaction and take my check instead."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wigglesworth, but only your friend's estate has the authority to do that," Bruce said. "But I wouldn't worry if I were you. If you and he were as close friends as you say, you may very well be given the object you seek. What was it, again?"

Bartleby sighed. "It is a rare first edition of _Anna Karenina_," he said.

"You see, Mr. Wigglesworth?" Sullivan, the manager said with an expression of deep relief on his face, "I simply cannot allow you to take anything out of Mr. Milsap's suite. It's out of my hands."

Bartleby's countenance grew stony. "I warn you, Mr. Wayne, I am very well connected and you shall hear from my attorneys if I am deprived of my rights!"

"That may be," Bruce said, "but until then this matter is out of my hands. It is strictly between you and your friend's estate."

Commissioner Gordon had been silent during this exchange but the whole situation was still setting all his alarm bells off.

"Mr. Wigglesworth, would you be so kind as to tell Mr. Wayne what you told us at headquarters this morning?"

"Why, I don't see that that's any of his business. I have made my statement and you have it on file," he insisted.

"But...you say that you and your friend were alone when he fell in the path of an oncoming subway train?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"And you had to findsomeone with a cell phone in order to report the accident? "

"Of course. It's not as if I had a built-in radio transmitter in my spectacles, after all."

_Well, those frames are certainly big enough to have one _Gordon thought. "But I mean, you don't carry a cell phone yourself?"

"Oh my gracious, no!" Bartleby said, crinkling his nose in disgust. "Horrid little things, the lot of them! I do not fancy myself on call at all hours, and I am not overly fond of technology as it is."

"I suppose then," Bruce put in, "that you also don't have a computer?"

"I have several!" Bartleby sniffed. "That's a completely different situation. I find word processing programs to be of splendid use, and printers are excellent for desktop publishing."

"Wait a minute! 'Bartleby Wigglesworth...' You're some sort of writer, aren't you?" Bruce said as something in his memory bubbled to the surface.

"Er...yes, 'some sort of writer,'" Bartleby said in a tone that seemed to indicate he wasn't particularly proud of the sort of writer he was.

"Well, that's most ironic, since this whole situation seems like it's out of some cheap, poorly written crime novel..."

Bruce stopped abruptly when he saw the expression on the little man's face at this statement. It was twisted with rage.

"I see no need to stand here and be insulted!" Bartleby said. "I perform my civic duty in informing the police about the tragic death of my friend...which is a heavy enough burden in itself..., I come here to make a simple request to be given what is now rightfully mine, and I am treated as some sort of criminal! I have had quite enough of this!"

"How long do you plan on remaining in Gotham?" Gordon asked.

"I don't know. I must say that I find your city's treatment of me something that provides me very little incentive for remaining in it one second longer than I find necessary, but I have not yet given up on claiming my property. Now are you gentlemen quite finished with me?"

"Quite," the Commissioner answered, amused at Bartleby's complaints at being subjected to questions when he had initiated the confrontation himself by showing up and making a scene at the Milsap's hotel. "Are you still staying at--?"

"Yes, the Hotel Belvedere. Now, if you 'gentleman' will excuse me..." And with a huff the little man who looked so timid but behaved so arrogantly left the hotel manager's office, slamming the door behind him.

"Are you sure you have nothing to hold him on?" Bruce asked.

"He's the only witness," Gordon said. "There's absolutely no way to pin anything on him, and what's left of the body certainly doesn't prove anything other than the man was hit by a speeding train."

"Is there anything else I can help you gentlemen with?" the manager asked the two men.

"No. We're quite through here, for now," the Commissioner said. "But if that weirdo shows up again and starts making trouble you call us right away. This whole thing stinks."

"Count on it!" Sullivan said. "Good day Commissioner...Mr. Wayne. Always a pleasure to see Gotham's number one citizen!"

"You're much too kind," Bruce said.

- - - - -

"So, was your morning productive?" Alfred asked Bruce as he piloted the limousine back to Wayne Manor.

"I wouldn't say productive, Alfred, but it was certainly most unusual...and frustrating."

"And which priceless artifact is at the center of this tempest?" Alfred asked.

"A rare first edition of _Anna Karenina_," Bruce answered.

"Ah, excellent artifact," Alfred mused, "perhaps the greatest novel ever written. Tolstoy was certainly far ahead of his time in depicting the suicide of the title character, certainly a precursor of naturalism."

"**Alfred!" **Bruce bolted upright in his seat.

Alfred, not expecting this, stepped on the brake suddenly, bringing the car to a sudden and very uncomfortable halt.

"Master Bruce! If there had been a vehicle immediately following us..."

"Alfred, why didn't I think of this before? In _Anna Karenina_,the heroine kills herself by throwing herself in front of a train! It's all beginning to come together!"

"Foul play is afoot, then?" Alfred wanted to know.

"I'm sure of it, and so is the Commissioner. But because there are no witnesses and no evidence the police can't do anything about it. But I know someone who can!"

_**To be continued...**_


	4. Chapter 3

**Enter the Bookworm**

**by "The Enduring Man-Child"**

_**All standard disclaimers apply.**_

**Thanks to Saloma-Kiwi and Jen Rock for reviewing the last chapter, and, as always, to cpneb for the beta.**

- - - - -

**Chapter 3**

The Hotel Belvedere, like Bartleby himself, represented "old" money. That is to say, while it might have been glamorous in the 1930's, it was now a seedy hotel in what had long become a seedy part of town. "Quaint" was about the best thing that could be said about it. "Tragic" was perhaps the best word to describe its long fall from its once-high status.

Bartleby looked about at his suite. Well, that was what it was called, and that's what it was when the hotel had been built, but now it was hard to describe. The _art nouveau _style of the architecture clashed with the "Holiday Inn" furnishings—as if the old spirit of the place had died and been replaced by something that didn't belong there. Still, Bartleby was "old money," and "old money" had long since been bypassed by the "new money," which meant this is where he belonged. When he thought of the enormous suite his rival had used in the new luxury hotel downtown a wave of anger—not, not anger—_hatred_—passed through him, to be replaced with a sense of satisfaction. After all, this—Chad, was it?—was no longer a factor. But when he recalled that despite this he still didn't have what he had come after the hatred and resentment rose in him once more. It wasn't fair!

He was at a loss as to how to proceed. He knew that Gordon had been legally correct in pointing out that the precious book that had been snatched out from under him was now the property of his late "friend's" estate, and there it was going to stay unless he could think of something. But, with a mind full of the plots of all the great literature of the world, there was nothing quite like this; and for some reason, fate had decided to deny him the creativity it had bestowed on less deserving writers.

Suddenly, a breeze interrupted his reveries. A window curtain was blowing inward. Wait a minute—what was that window doing open? He was sure it had been closed before. Bartleby went to the window to close it. Something made him look about to see if there was anything amiss outside. He could find nothing. But still, something wasn't right. Suddenly he felt, rather than saw a shadow fall across him from behind, from within the room that had just now been empty save of him. He turned around...

What he saw terrified him. He had read, and even written, Gothic horrors before, but the figure that confronted him was like nothing from any story. It was three-dimensional, for one thing. It seemed humanoid but at the same time resembled a giant bat. The air from the still open window caused the wings in which it had wrapped itself to move eerily about. He swallowed.

"Bartleby Wigglesworth?" The voice was deep and gruff, barely human. Bartleby was so terrified that he couldn't answer.

"I said _**Bartleby Wigglesworth**_!" Now he was too terrified _not _to answer.

"Y—Y—Yes?" he managed at last. The dread figure approached him until they would have been nose to nose—had not it towered over him.

"Do you know who I am?" it asked.

Bartleby nodded. "Y—You're the Batman. I've heard of you. B—But I didn't believe you were real!"

"Oh, I'm real, all right," Batman responded. "Believe it!" He took a moment to silently circle his prey.

"Wh—What do you want with me?" Bartleby asked, though deep down he knew the reason.

"You killed a man last night," Batman answered in that same low growl. "I don't like murderers in my town."

"Mur—Murder? No! No! I didn't! I _couldn't_! You're wrong!"

"Oh?" Batman stared at him in silence for a while. "You attended the Wayne Foundation charity auction last night. You wanted to purchase a rare first edition of _Anna Karenina_. But somebody had more money than you and got it. And instead of simply accepting this disappointment, you _killed _him to get that book. And you pushed him in front of a train so that he'd die the same way as the heroine of that book, you sick little man!"

Bartleby stood gasping, almost hyperventilating. For what seemed forever, he was unable to get a sound out. Finally, he spoke.

"No...we were going to take the subway back to his hotel together when he fell...he _fell! _I was the only one there to see it. The body was horribly mangled. There were no witnesses. There is no evidence!" The frightened little man actually seemed to be working up some courage.

"How do you know _**I **_wasn't there?" he asked.

"You—you were there?" he asked. Then suddenly his face hardened. "No! You _weren't_ there! You're trying to trick me! I didn't do it!"

"I say you did. Furthermore, you _know _you did it! You've committed murder in my town, Wigglesworth. You're not going to get away with it. I'm going to see to it that you're punished!"

"What are you going to do?" Bartleby asked.

"I'm going to see to it that you go to the police and confess!" the dark vigilante told him.

"I know something of the law!" Bartleby replied, trying to sound brave but still shaking like a leaf. "I've written a few crime novels in my time, and coerced confessions aren't admissible as evidence!"

"I could drop you out that window," Batman indicated. "I've dealt with 'innocent' people before. You'd be surprised how a threatened drop from a high elevation can loosen the tongue!"

"You wouldn't!" Bartleby said.

"Oh, I would," Batman assured him, "believe me. So why don't you just save the both of us the trouble and go down to the police station and tell them what you did? You know if you don't, it will torment you. Surely you have a conscience."

Of course Batman had no intention of actually harming the little man, whom he could snap like a twig if he wished. He was the "good guy," after all, whatever some people thought of him. But he knew that in this case the only way to put Wigglesworth away was to have him confess to the police, and in his experience threats, backed by his fearsome reputation, often worked to achieve this.

He was, actually, fighting against a rising temptation to feel sorry for this pathetic little man when said pathetic little man, suddenly and unaccountably, replaced his look of utter cowardice with a look of steel. In fact, despite the difference in size and Batman's well-honed tactics of intimidation this little fellow actually seemed to grow—angry?

"_**No! **_I won't do it!" he shouted. "You're trying to trick me! You weren't there, and _I _say it was an accident! And any confession you beat or terrify out of me is inadmissible! Furthermore..." And here the little man seemed to lose all his fear and became positively livid. "Furthermore I am thoroughly _sick _and _tired _of being bullied and pushed around by people three times my size with one tenth the brains! Your musculature indicates that you can't be very bright..." (here Batman found himself growing angry as well) "...and I have had to put up with persecution from the likes of you for my entire life! Well, _no more_, do you hear me? You may kill me, you may throw me out that window, you may beat me to a bloody pulp, but that's because you are a coward and a bully who derives a sick satisfaction from the pain and fear you cause those weaker than you! I am _not _going to confess, so either put an end to me or _begone!_"

Bruce Wayne was no bully. He had dedicated his life to protecting the weak and helpless from just the sort of behavior he was now being accused of, and he realized that most of the people he used his not-quite-legal intimidation tactics on were far larger and abler than the little man now quivering with rage before him. Furthermore, although all his instincts (which he had good reason to trust) were telling him that this pitiable figure before him was a murderer, the fact was that he had no way to prove his suspicions.

"Having been picked on by bullies is no excuse to take a human life," he growled at last to him. He noticed that Bartleby blanched at that comment.

The atmosphere remained tense for a while after this observation. Then, at last, Batman said, "Wigglesworth, I want you out of my town. Leave tomorrow at the latest and don't ever let me catch you in Gotham again."

"This is a free country!" Bartleby protested.

Suddenly he found himself nose to nose with the mysterious figure.

"You're a murderer," he said, "and a very dangerous one. You're smart enough to know exactly how to do the job with no loose ends to tie it back to you. You're overly intelligent in all the wrong ways and apparently a psychopath who doesn't know the most basic aspects of relating with other human beings. Even if you were innocent, which we both know you're _not_, you're dangerous. I meant what I said. I can't afford to let a danger like you roam free in my town. Now get out before I do what I probably _should _do and get rid of you myself!"

And suddenly he was gone. The wind blew the curtains through the open window.

- - - - -

Bartleby sat in the large overstuffed chair that had belonged to his father. He had been cheated out of his rightful property by a vulgar _poseur _with no breeding or brains and had been chased out of Gotham City by a muscle-bound vigilante who was no better than the criminals he fought against.

He had lost again, as he always seemed to do. He had disappointed his father, been a punching bag at school, and a failure at the one thing that should have come naturally to him—writing books...and, because his head was too full of knowledge gleaned from those same books, at that! And now his inherited money, never as large an amount as those of the undeserving _nouveau riche_, was diminishing rapidly.

He put his head in his hands. What did he have now? No family, no precious first edition of _Anna Karenina_, and nowhere near the money that was his right as a Wigglesworth. He looked up a moment at the books that covered every wall in the study. These were priceless. If he sold them he would very soon be as wealthy as anyone in the country. But he knew he _couldn't_. Without these books...what was he? They _defined _him.

A sudden anger flushed though him as he studied the volumes. In a childhood with no friends and even no relationship to his father to speak of these books had been his only companions. With human beings he was a failure. With books (other than writing them) he seemed to be a success. But how was living like this a _success_? He suddenly realized that while these books may have been his only true friends they had also played a role in making him the pathetic wretch he was now. They had isolated him from humanity, turned him into an eccentric, a weirdo, a—a _bookworm_. Yes, maybe without these books he would have had to relate with other people. Maybe he would have been...normal. But he wasn't. And here were all these books, the very things he had looked to for comfort and companionship, fairly _mocking _him for his social dystopia. They mocked him also because they knew--_somehow they knew—_that he could never bring himself to part with them. The very thought of someone else pawing through their pages sent a wave of murderous jealousy through him.

He thought, for a moment, he could here his father's mocking laughter. Looking up, he located the sound in a glass enclosed bookcase of the oldest and most valuable books in his possession. Particular favorites of his father's, they were ancient tomes bound in the finest leather, protected from decay by the finest attention and by being preserved in an air-tight environment. He realized suddenly that _these, _and not he, were the true children of his father. To him, Bartleby was only a disappointment.

"I'll show you! _**I'll show you!!!**_" he said at last, and in a passion seized an ancient fire poker and smashed the glass casing. He began tossing the heretofore beloved objects out onto the floor. Oh, if his father could only see him now! But even on the floor they seemed to taunt him. Still muttering "I'll show you!" he seized the books and tore off the beautiful, priceless leather covers. All the anger built up in him: towards his father, towards his classmates, towards the vulgar new rich, and towards mankind as a whole, was at last unleashed on the cause of all his alienation! And how good it felt!

How good it felt...for a moment. And then...then the guilt welled up in him. What had he done? _What had he done??? _He had essentially destroyed millions of dollars of beautiful old books, the priceless heritage of mankind, in a fit of displaced anger. Unable to attack his tormentors he had instead destroyed his friends—his _only _friends in the whole world!

Batman..._Batman! _This was all _his _fault! This time, Bartleby Wigglesworth was not going to take it. Those days were over! He was a genius; even his hated foe had admitted that. He had already gotten away scot-free with murder. He was certainly capable of doing many more things to punish society for its treatment of him, and he could _certainly _triumph over a muscle-bound thug with obviously very little intelligence! Yes...that's what he would do. He would return to Gotham. And he would deal with this Batman just as he had dealt with Chad Millpond (or whatever his name was). But first...

- - - - -

The small, lithe figure smiled at the image in the mirror. His new suit was made of the leather covers of his father's ancient beloved books. So was his hat, which also bore a reading lamp. And his glasses, large enough to contain a radio sending and receiving set...well, that's _exactly _what they contained. Waiting for him in the driveway was an old bookmobile which he had purchased and made ready for his adventures.

"Very well, World," he said at last. "You laughed at Bartleby Wigglesworth. You dismissed him as a person of no consequence, someone you could wrong and push around at will. Well, you have gotten your wish, World, though I don't doubt you will very soon wish you had him back, because that person no longer exists.

"Exit: Bartleby Wigglesworth

"Enter: _**THE BOOKWORM!!!**_"

_**The End **_

_**(or The Beginning, depending on your point of view!)**_


End file.
